Chapter Fifteen
“You’re out and about unusually early,” Tommy commented to an admittedly weary-looking Rossingley. The earl loved his bed like a miser loved his gold, even more so with handsome Kit Angel occupying it.
“I’m hiding from an irate American papa and a certain disagreeable marquess, whom I anticipate will be beating my door down at any moment and demanding an audience.”
Daintily, the earl nibbled on an iced fondant. “Willoughby and Miss Amelia Chesterton have eloped to Gretna Green.”
He seemed terribly unconcerned.
“Good heavens,” exclaimed Ashington. “Your Willoughby?”
“Does anybody else have one lurking somewhere?”
“But…are you sure your sons haven’t swapped again?”
“Quite sure,” confirmed Rossingley with a nod. “My dear Rollo was the one who broke the news at such an ungodly hour this morning, seeing as he facilitated the arrangements. At least when Talybridge finally catches up with me, I shall be able to deny prior knowledge of the escapade.”
“Good for Willoughby,” Tommy remarked. “Let’s hope Miss Amelia’s father doesn’t catch up with them.”
“Quite. Knowing Chesterton will have men hot on their heels, they’re travelling by chaise and four—my chaise and four—with post horses beyond St Albans.
According to Rollo, they slipped away early yesterday evening when everybody was occupied admiring Talybridge’s rather stylish facial growth.
” Rossingley permitted himself a tiny smug smile.
“Actually, I’m rather proud of Willoughby’s spirit, though obviously I’ll have to pretend to be scandalised, dreadfully ashamed, the scourge of the ton for the remainder of the season, et cetera, et cetera.
Such a bore. But he’s not the first Rossingley heir to follow his heart in a somewhat unconventional manner, and I daresay he shan’t be the last.”
“Well, it sounds as if they have a decent head start,” Tommy commented, “given that last night’s distractions…ah…ran away with themselves a little.”
“Thank heavens you weren’t caught, Mickey.” Ashington sounded relieved. “I’d never have forgiven myself. Not worth risking one’s life over some damned jewellery.” He shook his head. “Perhaps now I should let it go. At least we tried.”
“And we’ll try again.” Rossingley reached for a second iced fondant.
“Talybridge should never have owned it, and Beauregard shan’t get away with stealing it.
Even if the runners don’t shake it out of him, we shall.
We will ensure that parure ends up in your possession, Ashington, and not back in Talybridge’s.
Beauregard cannot, and will not, outsmart us.
There is only one of him, and we are eight!
” His smooth brow pinched. “Or rather we will be, when Willoughby reappears.”
“At least one good thing has come from our failed plot to steal the parure,” Mickey added miserably. “With luck, Willoughby and Miss Amelia should not be far from Towcester by now.”
“Fingers crossed,” answered Tommy. “Sorry about your ankle, old chap.”
“It’s fine, honestly.”
It wasn’t at all. A sick feeling, heavy as a hundred stones, gnawed at Mickey’s belly.
Valentin had sacrificed himself so Mickey could flee, only seconds after Mickey had accused him of being a lying snake.
If that wasn’t proof of love, proof that Valentin hadn’t lied to him, then that ephemeral, unfathomable thing didn’t exist.
Grimacing, he adjusted his leg position. “Beauregard insisted he hadn’t stolen the parure from the safe.”
Through every hour of the long night, Mickey’s restless mind had chewed on his lover’s words. You have so thoroughly plundered my heart that my appetite for thieving has been quite ruined by it.
“He swore that he’d stolen neither money nor jewellery.”
“Then why the hell was he there?” rumbled Ashington. “And why is my bloody parure still missing?”
“I…cannot explain it.” Mickey inhaled deeply. “But I find myself believing him.”
His three friends, older and wiser, regarded him.
“I know you have developed a tendre for the scoundrel, Mickey,” Rossingley offered kindly.
“And he for you, in some capacity, given that he aided your escape. But the indisputable fact remains that the parure is missing, and Beauregard was at the scene of the crime. Even blinkered by your emotions, you must admit that circle is fiendishly difficult to square, is it not?”
“Yes, but…” Mickey tried not to wilt under Rossingley’s silvery scrutiny.
“Somehow, Beauregard knew the parure belonged to Ashington.” Indeed, at the time, it had strangely felt like Beauregard had been waiting for him to appear.
“He said—” Mickey shut his eyes, trying to recall the exact words.
“He said, ‘I have not removed a single item of money or jewellery—including the Duke of Ashington’s parure—from that safe. You have my word.’”
Ashington scratched his head. “No one alive knows that thing belonged to my family, except for Talybridge. Not even Rossingley here knew until I told him. Talybridge was hardly going to blab.”
“And when I opened it, the safe was still rammed with all of Talybridge’s other things,” Mickey pointed out.
“Documents, piles of blunt, and other valuable items; Beauregard could have taken any of them. It certainly hadn’t been looted and left hanging open and empty.
One could hardly have squeezed anything else inside. ”
“None of us have let slip that we were plotting to steal it,” Tommy ruminated.
“Or, in fact, that the parure rightfully belonged to Benedict.” He cut his eyes to Rossingley.
“At least…you don’t think Willoughby, overcome with calf love, might have confessed all to his young amour, do you? Who may have let it slip elsewhere?”
“Absolutely not,” Rossingley declared stoutly.
“I’d wager my earldom on it. Not because he is incapable of sharing, but because Willoughby knows that to do so would be to strip away my complete and utter trust in my heir.
He takes that role extremely seriously. Naturally, I shall verify on his return.
But even Rollo, after a quart of brandy, I would trust to bite his tongue. ”
“For what it’s worth, I’m confident Willoughby wouldn’t have blabbed either,” offered Ashington. “Rum do though.”
“Agreed.” Tommy frowned. “But are we suggesting there were three sets of thieves on the same night, all separately chasing after the same thing? Far too much of a coincidence. I’m sorry, Mickey, but Beauregard must be the culprit. There really is no other explanation.”
“But he—” Mickey flushed, unkeen to demonstrate exactly how far he’d fallen for Valentin, yet, after a sleepless night and with the relentless, strength-sapping pain in his ankle, struggling to hide it.
You have so thoroughly plundered my heart that my appetite for thieving has been quite ruined by it.
“But he…I rather believed the man to be telling the truth. That’s all.
He’s slippery and charming and every one of those untrustworthy things he’s purported to be. Yet I…”
“Sadly, my darling, one’s fellow men rarely fit into any single box.
” Rossingley patted Mickey’s leg fondly.
“As much as we’d like to neatly categorise them.
His fondness for you might well be heartfelt and sincere, yet he’s still capable of lying through his teeth when it suits.
Many a happy marriage is formed on such foundations, though it’s a truth that comes with a certain sting, I’m afraid, because it means one’s world is never as simple as good and bad. ”
A sting developing into quiet torment. Mickey attempted to shift his ankle to a more comfortable position. “But it still doesn’t explain how he knew the parure belonged to Ashington.”
“No,” conceded Rossingley slowly. “I’ll grant that aspect of the thing is a puzzle we need to get to the bottom of. But—”
A heavy rap at the door interrupted him. Sidney lumbered in, accompanied by a nondescript, benign-looking fellow, who reminded Mickey of a plump parson.
“Apologies for the interruption, Mr Squire. But this gentleman insisted.”
His companion nodded at Tommy, giving his guests a cursory glance. “Mr Harold Pearson. Principal Officer of Bow Street. How do you do.”
Pearson hitched his eyeglasses up his nose.
If the runner was overawed by the grandeur of the gentlemen’s club or of the four well-dressed men occupying the four wing-backed chairs, he was careful not to show it.
“I’m urgently seeking a young gentleman I believe to be in your employ, Mr Squire. A Mr Michael Maurice.”
A cold flood of panic filled Mickey’s chest. “I’m Maurice,” he managed, his mouth dry.
Though the eyeglasses were thick and smeared, he had the horrifying impression that Mr Pearson had already absorbed Mickey’s ankle injury, his scuffed hands, and his general air of heartsore misery, put two and two together, and nailed the correct answer.
All in the time it took Sidney to take up an intimidating stance blocking the door.
“Hmm.” Pearson nudged his glasses again. “A robbery was reported yesterday evening at the Marquess of Talybridge’s residence on Cumberland Place. During a society ball held in honour of his future nuptials. Extremely valuable items of jewellery were taken.”
“We know,” said Tommy drily. “As does half of London, seeing as half of London was there.”
Ignoring him, Pearson addressed Mickey. “A foreign gentleman was apprehended at the scene.”
“Excellent news,” Rossingley responded cheerfully, which was just as well as a trapdoor appeared to have opened below Mickey. He was closer to casting up his accounts than formulating a suitable response. “So, the crime has been solved?”
“Not quite yet, sir.” Pearson inclined his head. “Although we have apprehended a suspect, the location of the jewellery in question remains unknown.”
Rossingley’s expression changed to one of cool, mild interest. “And you are bothering our dear Mr Maurice with this because…”